Chapter 24
Anne
Master Paul’s thumb followed the path the razor had just cleared, stroking across the newly bare skin with a slow, testing pressure that made my entire body shudder.
The pad of his thumb moved over my mound in a single, proprietary sweep—feeling the smoothness, checking his work, and simultaneously claiming the territory he’d just uncovered.
The sensation was unlike anything I’d ever experienced.
Without the hair, every nerve ending on that skin seemed to have been switched on for the first time, and the warmth of his thumb against the bare, freshly shaved flesh sent a current of feeling so intense through my hips that they lifted off the towel despite every effort to hold still.
“Smooth,” he said quietly. His thumb traced the outer edge of my left pussy lip, following the crease where the shaved skin met the delicate inner flesh, and I whimpered. “Perfectly smooth. That’s how a girl’s cunt should feel when it belongs to her suitor.”
He rinsed the razor one final time and set it in the basin.
He wiped the remaining traces of foam from my skin with a warm, damp cloth, and the gentleness of the motion—the careful, almost tender way he cleaned me—made my eyes sting with a confusion of gratitude and shame and need so tangled I couldn’t have separated the strands if my life depended on it.
Then he stood. He looked down at me—spread open on the white towel, bare between my thighs for the first time in my adult life, my welted bottom throbbing against the tile floor beneath the towel, my face streaked with tears and flushed the color of the lingerie draped over the counter.
His eyes moved from my newly shaved pussy to the red lace.
“Melissa. Darlene.” His voice carried across the set with the unhurried authority of a man who expected the world to arrange itself around his decisions. “Scene change. I’m going to fuck her in the red lingerie, on the bedroom set.”
The words seemed to explode inside my chest. My hands, which had been lying at my sides on the towel, flew to my stomach and pressed there, as if I could hold down the violent lurch of my insides.
My freshly bared pussy clenched—I felt it with a vividness that the shaving had made almost unbearable, every micro-contraction registering against bare, hypersensitive skin with nothing to muffle it.
“Oh, hell, yes,” Melissa said from somewhere beyond the lights. Her voice carried the particular fervor of a woman whose creative instincts had just been handed a gift. “Yes, absolutely. Darlene, can you move to the bedroom set in five? We need the bed.”
“I can move in three,” Darlene said. I heard the rapid shuffle of equipment cases and the click of light stands being collapsed. “Get the C-camera on the dolly. I want full coverage.”
Master Paul crouched beside me. His hand found my chin and tilted my face toward his, and the look he gave me—dark, focused, suffused with a hunger that he wasn’t bothering to conceal—made my breath stop in my throat.
“You’re going to put on the lingerie,” he said. “Right here in the bathroom. I’ll be back for you in a few minutes.”
He stood and walked off the bathroom set without looking behind him.
I heard his footsteps recede across the studio floor.
He spoke to Darlene in a low, efficient murmur about camera angles and lighting adjustments, then there was silence on the white tile around me.
I was alone with the lingerie, my hammering heart, and the slick, bare, aching center of myself.
I sat up. The movement made my welted bottom press against the floor through the towel and I hissed, my eyes squeezing shut against the fresh wave of stinging heat. My hands shook as I reached for the red lace on the counter.
I started with the garter belt. The crimson satin was cool against my fingers, the fabric so fine it seemed like it might dissolve at my touch.
I wrapped it around my waist and fastened the tiny hooks at the back, my fingers fumbling, missing twice before the clasps caught.
The belt sat snug against my hips, the four dangling straps hanging down my bare thighs like thin red lines drawn on my skin.
The bra came next. I slid my arms through the straps and reached behind to fasten it, and when I looked down at myself the breath left my body.
The sheer crimson lace lay against my breasts like a whisper, and through the intricate pattern my nipples were visible—pink and hard and straining against the delicate web of thread, the scalloped edges cutting across them exactly as I’d feared, framing rather than covering, presenting them as if the bra’s entire purpose was to say look here.
Then, the panties. The narrow triangle of red lace.
I stepped into them and drew them up my legs, and when the fabric settled against my freshly shaved pussy, the sensation made a sound escape me—a soft, involuntary moan that I couldn’t have suppressed if someone had offered me a million dollars.
The lace sat directly against bare skin.
No hair between my flesh and the delicate thread.
Every fiber of the pattern pressed against nerve endings that had been hidden for years and were now screaming with new awareness, and the feeling was so acute, so intimate, that my knees nearly buckled.
Finally I pulled on the matching nylons, shivering as I rolled them up my calves, then over my knees and up my thighs.
Again, I felt contained, but in a very different way from the containment of the training underwear.
Trying not to think about what would soon happen, in the bedroom, I fastened the suspenders to the tops of the stockings.
I stood on the white tile of the bathroom set in the red lingerie and looked at myself in the large mirror above the sink.
The girl in the mirror looked wanton. Not the Sunday-school girl in training panties.
Not the ponytailed intern in polka dots.
This naughty girl was flushed from her forehead to her chest, her blonde hair falling loose around her shoulders—the ponytail had come undone at some point during the belting, I realized, and no one had fixed it.
My green eyes were bright with tears that hadn’t quite dried, ringed with the faint smudge of mascara. The red lingerie against my fair skin looked like something painted there by a hand that understood exactly what it wanted to reveal.
And between this girl’s thighs, visible through the sheer red lace triangle, the bare mound of her freshly shaved pussy showed through the pattern like a secret written in skin.
Smooth. Pale. Completely, devastatingly exposed.
Even the cleft of my private lips could be glimpsed through the translucent scarlet fabric.
I heard his footsteps returning.
Master Paul appeared at the threshold of the bathroom set, and his stride broke for a fraction of a second when he saw me. Just a fraction—a momentary hitch in his step, a slight widening of his eyes—before the controlled mask reassembled itself. But I’d seen it.
I’d seen the moment when the sight of me in the red lingerie had pierced whatever professional armor he wore, and the knowledge that I could do that to him—that my body, bare and displayed and offered in crimson lace, could make this man falter—sent a rush of something through me that felt dangerously close to power.
Then he had crossed the tile toward me, and the power evaporated, replaced by the familiar, overwhelming awareness of how much larger he was than me, how much stronger, how completely he could do whatever he wanted with my body and how completely my body wanted him to.
He didn’t speak. He bent and scooped me up—one arm beneath my knees, the other behind my back—and lifted me against his chest as if I weighed nothing.
My arms went around his neck by instinct, my face found the hollow of his throat, and I breathed him in while he carried me across the floor, his now-familiar scent almost comforting even as it provoked a wayward flare of arousal between my thighs.
I could feel his heartbeat against my ribs. It was faster than I’d expected. Steady, but fast.
“Oh, my God,” Melissa said as he carried me past the monitors. Her voice was hushed, almost reverent. “Oh, my God, what a shot. Darlene, tell me you’re getting that—him carrying her—the red against his suit—her face in his neck—”
“I’m getting it,” Darlene confirmed from somewhere I couldn’t see. “B-camera tracking. Keep moving, Paul. Don’t stop.”
He carried me onto the bedroom set. The white sheets had been smoothed, the pillows rearranged, and the lighting had shifted—softer now, warmer, the key light positioned to cast a golden glow across the bed that made the white cotton look like cream.
He set me down on the mattress with a care that contrasted violently with everything his belt had done to me fifteen minutes earlier, lowering me onto my back and settling my head against the pillows.
Then he stood over me.
He stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at me. The angle, with him towering above and me lying below in red lace with my legs slightly parted and my newly bare pussy visible through the sheer triangle of fabric, created a geometry of dominance so explicit it made me dizzy.
Master Paul’s eyes moved down my body with a deliberateness that made every inch of skin he looked at feel like it was being touched.
“I chose well,” he said. “You look incredible in that lingerie.”
“Paul.” Melissa’s voice came from behind the monitors, low and charged. “Keep talking to her. Be dominant. Tell her what you’re going to do. Own her.”
His hands went to his belt and he unfastened it. The clink of the buckle sent a Pavlovian jolt of fear and arousal through my body so powerful that my hips lifted off the mattress. But he wasn’t reaching for the belt to use on me, to teach me another terrible lesson. He was undressing.
The trousers came down. The shirt came off.
And then he stood over me in nothing but his shorts, and the sight of his body—the broad, muscled chest, the dark hair, the flat stomach, the unmistakable ridge of his erection straining against the fabric—made my mouth go dry and my pussy clench so hard that the lace pressed against my bare folds and I whimpered.
He pulled the shorts down, his cock sprang free, and I saw it for the first time since yesterday, when it had been in my mouth, when it had been too close and too overwhelming to really look at.
From this angle it looked much too big. Thick and hard and flushed dark with blood, the head swollen and glistening faintly, curving upward toward his stomach with a heaviness that made my inner walls contract around nothing.
He knelt on the bed, between my spread knees. His weight pressed the mattress down on either side of me, and his hands found my thighs and pushed them further apart with a firmness that brooked no negotiation.
Then his hands closed around the red lace between my legs. I gasped as both fists took the left side of the front panel in their grasp.
He didn’t pull the panties down. He didn’t slide them to the side.
He gripped the delicate fabric in his fist and he ripped it, and the sound the lace made as it tore—a soft, decisive shredding, the tiny threads snapping one after another—sent a bolt of something through my body that was so far beyond arousal it needed a different word.
The ruined panties fell away from my pussy in tatters, and he left them there, the torn crimson lace around my right thigh like a flag of surrender.
My shaved pussy lay bare beneath him. Exposed. Smooth and glistening and swollen and completely, utterly his.
“Oh, fuck,” Melissa breathed as Master Paul’s hands found the backs of my knees.
He pushed them up. Not gently. Not with the careful, incremental pressure of a man giving a girl time to adjust. My master folded me in half with the decisive, proprietary force of a man who owned the thing he manipulated.
He pressed my knees back toward my ears until my hips tilted upward and my freshly shaved pussy was presented to him at an angle that felt like the most explicit thing my body had ever been made to do.
The red garter belt dug into my waist. The stockings pulled taut against the suspender clasps.
My welted bottom lifted off the sheets, and the cool air of the studio hit every inch of bare, swollen, desperately needy flesh between my thighs.
I whimpered as he took his right hand from the back of my knee and used it to adjust the position of his huge, rigid penis.
Expertly he lodged the head just inside the entrance to my slick, aching sheath.
The whimper became a moan of helpless anticipation.
Master Paul moved his hand back to my knee, pressing me open even further.
He looked into my eyes, and the hunger I saw made me feel faint.
Then he thrust himself into me.